


Once Upon a December

by little_miss_shinigami (rosexwald)



Series: Once Upon a December [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Disorder, Christmas, Depression, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Angst, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Psychological Trauma, graphic description of death, warning for those who might find it triggering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-14
Updated: 2012-12-14
Packaged: 2017-11-21 03:22:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/592879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosexwald/pseuds/little_miss_shinigami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"All those lights, and mistletoe, and presents wrapped in a colorful paper… it was Christmas again, time went so fast, and everything there looked exactly like it looked last year… how could world be shamelessly bedecked with lights and colors, like if nothing happened?! How could world just go on?!"</p><p>Post-Reichenbach December.<br/>John thinks about last Christmas he spent with Sherlock. And he's definitely not dealing with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once Upon a December

 

***

__

_“If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part of it.”_  
  
~ Emily Brontë, _Wuthering Heights_

***

November 26th

He woke up feeling very strange. He could feel it even while still lying in bed. Something wasn’t right. His hands felt weak, his knees felt rigid. He was lying like this for an hour or so, looking up at the grayish, monotonous ceiling, breathing shakily but slowly, fisting his palms, feeling just… odd.  
  
Morning mist started to disappear, few ragged clouds drifting away, leaving the sky blue and clear. It looked like it’d be a nice and sunny day, only freezing breeze blowing through naked trees was a sign that winter was coming.  
  
And there he was, listening to the wind from behind closed windows, staring into the void, and wondering why he’s feeling so strange. He sit up on the bed, it was so quiet and calm around, yet he didn’t feel calm at all. Sunlight flickered through the curtains, lights and shadows dancing on a wooden floor. He got up, floor cracking under his feet. Then he felt it. He panicked and tried to lean against the wall, reaching his hand to take hold of anything, sitting heavily, or rather falling, eventually, down onto a mattress. He took several deep, nasal breaths, grabbed a handful of the blanket, his eyes widened. He remained still for a longer while, fearing to move, fearing to take a louder breath. He closed his eyes and covered his face with his right hand, escaping, hiding, feared of the outside world. Then he realized how stupid that was, how ridiculous he must’ve looked, how glad he was no one could see him then; he got up again, grimacing as he walked across the room to his wardrobe. He opened it, took out his old cane, and closed the wardrobe’s door calmly, without anger.  
  
He thought it’d be that way, eventually. He suspected it’d end like this, of course he hoped not, or really he was just trying not to think about it at all, pretending there was no issue to think about, but it has always been hiding somewhere on the back of his head, waiting, haunting him at night, scratching its way back. He slowly went downstairs, carefully taking steps, walls of the empty, quiet flat, echoing the sound of his footsteps, his three legs. 

He broke a mug, and then he stood there, in the kitchen, looking down at the pieces on the floor. It just fell from his hand, like if he had no strength to hold it properly, his fingers too weak. He stoop to clean up the pieces, but then he felt that pain in his leg again. He forgot how sudden a jolt of the cramp can be, how paralyzing. He dropped on one knee, somehow managing not to scream in pain, letting out only a louder gasp, squeezing his eyes shut. Kneeling on the floor he was waiting for the wave of heat to leave his head.

Mrs. Hudson came upstairs later, bringing a tray full of warm, sweet-smelling cookies. She found him sitting in his armchair, in front of the other, empty one. The room was cold, dark fireplace looking surprisingly small, even the sunlight sifting through the window seemed dim, giving John’s hair and eyelashes a gray tint. When she walked into the kitchen to leave the tray there, she saw the pounded mug on the floor. Looking back at John she noticed the cane, leaning against the chair next to his right hand. She said nothing, swept pieces of the mug quickly, and just left.  
  
John didn’t leave the flat that day. Not the he had nothing to do, nowhere to go, because he had. He had responsibilities, plans, but he decided to drop it all, without calling anyone with an explanation. He just stayed home, ignoring his phone when it was vibrating, pretending he can’t see Mrs. Hudson checking on him from time to time.  
During the day he looked at the closed door of the second bedroom several times. But he didn’t enter. Once he caught himself staring aimlessly into the darkness on the opposite end of the corridor, fisting his left hand. When the evening came, he gladly left the cold, unwelcoming living room to return upstairs, and as he passed, he forced himself not to look in the direction of the other bedroom. He climbed the stairs with much effort, limping. He certainly wasn’t going to sleep _there_. Of course it would be more comfortable for him, with his leg, to sleep downstairs, but it was out of the question.  
 _I should've moved out_ \- he thought when he was lying in his bed again. He only stayed here because of Mrs. Hudson, he didn’t want to leave her. Or maybe he himself just didn’t want to be left. But he has closed the door of Sherlock’s bedroom and didn’t enter it ever again, nor let anyone else to do so. That was why the room remained exactly how it was when Sherlock’s been there for the last time. And this was also exactly why John wasn’t going to sleep there. He wouldn’t be able to look at all these things. _His_ things.  
 _Oh, God, it probably still smells like him in there_ – the thought popped into his head out of nowhere and made him scowl. He rolled to the side and looked at the cane leaning against the wall. Yes, he actually did expect that to happen. He only wondered how long he’d manage without it. It took him surprisingly long anyway.  
Sherlock made him better once, but now that he was gone, John was about to hit the rock bottom again, and this time even harder. _Falling is just like flying._ Now it was John who was falling.

 

November 29th

He had to go to work and he felt sick just for the thought of it. His back hurt, his arms hurt, his bloody leg hurt, and his head was floating heavily on his stiff neck. He couldn’t eat anything, his throat was clenched and he felt like there was a stone in his guts. When he walked down the street his legs were like made of cotton, he could barely feel the ground under his feet. The crowd in the tube scared him, people were talking too loud, walking too fast, and there was too many of them. Work was hell that day as well, words his patients were saying seemed like spoken far, far away, he couldn’t focus. He hardly stood up at the end of the day because his legs went numb from his muscles constantly tensing. And then, again, he barely climbed the stairs to his room, having to help himself to lift his leg with both hands at the last few steps. But there was no way he was going to move to the second bedroom, even if he would have to crawl up the stairs eventually.  
No one could hear him, he was alone; nevertheless, he waited until he stepped under the shower and hot stream covered his face, then he allowed himself to cry.

 

December 1st 

With the beginning of the month it started snowing. First snow that winter; it quickly formed a crystal clean, white and fluffy cap that covered London. John looked away from the window and sank deeper into the armchair. For the past week he was leaving the flat only for work, nearly forcing himself to survive through the day, feeling like he’s going to faint any moment, and then rushing back home like if it was the last safe place on Earth. He wasn’t making any further arrangements, he wasn’t planning anything more than a day ahead, because he could never be sure if he’ll be able to go outside. And now that bloody snow, blowing into his face, melting on his eyelashes, mud splashing under his boots, like if walking wasn’t hard enough for him anyway.  
The day it started snowing John didn’t make it upstairs, the pain in his leg was unbearable. He just stayed in the living room and, looking at the fading flames in the fireplace, he lied down on a sofa, drifting away slowly. He had a strange, exhausting dream in which the snow falling from the sky was black, but when the black snowflakes were melting on the pavement they were turning into red puddles and, suddenly, John found himself standing ankles deep in blood. _His_ blood. He woke up wet, sweat making his shirt damp, clinging to his body. He looked out of the window; the snow was perfectly white.

 

December 7th 

He couldn’t pretend that he doesn’t see them anymore. First week of December and they were everywhere already. Colorful, flickering, and so bright that they were both, annoying and impossible to ignore. The Christmas lights were everywhere. Hanging from every shop window, tangled around streetlamps; bits of rainbow glowing and shining all around the city. That day he felt particularly bad, physically weak and tired. Everything seemed unreal, like if he wasn’t actually taking part in life, like if all the other people: strangers at the street, patients, colleagues - were behind a glass wall.  
He was going back home, his head bowed down, looking at the ground, partly to protect his eyes from the freezing wind, partly to avoid looking at people, they were all so annoying. And then his vision went dark and he wasn’t sure if he’d manage not to fall, as he saw the snow under his boots turning into blood. He closed his eyes and rubbed them with his fingers, stopping in the middle of the street, unable to move, paralyzed. Inhaling the cold air so quickly it almost hurt, he forced himself to open his eyes again. There was no blood on the pavement. Snow was white, as it should be, only those fucking Christmas lights, red lights hanging on the shop window he was just passing by, gave it a slightly reddish shade. John cursed, rubbed his eyes again, and, as if forgetting about his leg, nearly ran back home.  
He dropped onto sofa, pillow muffling his cry, and he didn’t move until the very morning. 

 

December 11th 

He had a longer lunch break, and Sarah ran into him in the buffet. Talking to her made him jaded, paying attention to what she was saying starting to make him almost angry. He didn’t really know why. He actually had to put a lot of effort into not standing up and leaving without a word. Then she mentioned that she planned some Christmas shopping on the weekend. John focused on her words for a while, making a quick calculation in his head, surprised that it’s so late already, that Christmas is coming and soon it’ll be impossible to ignore that fact.  
 _But… why should I ignore it?_ – he thought, and that was the first time he realized that that was it what was nagging him all the time.  
"I should probably buy a few things, too" – he said, and Sarah gave him a sympathetic look, as his voice sounded hoarse and sad.

He bought two bottles of wine on his way home, and, later, when the first bottle was empty, he called Harry. It just felt like something he should do. Harry was surprised but glad that he called, she was talking for half an hour, babbling about how she and Clara are trying to get back together, how they’re planning to spend Christmas and New Year’s Eve with each other, just like good old times. John told her he’s happy for her but a bit disappointed that she’s not going to visit him this year, but truly he felt relieved. After he hung up he poured himself another glass of wine. That was good, he didn’t feel like family meeting anyway. He was good by himself. 

 

December 15th

He felt better for the last few days. The thought that he doesn’t have to go to any long and boring family dinner on Christmas Eve, made him calmer. He still was a bit low spirited, but less nervous and less tired. He decided to take a walk after work; fresh, cold air was making his head clearer. He didn’t know how and why, but suddenly he found himself walking by St. Bart’s. He shuddered, he’s been avoiding the place like fire, he didn’t want to be there, but it was like his brain shut down for a moment and his legs just took him there involuntarily. He tried to walk faster but his leg hurt too much, he felt he’s sweating under his jacket. Someone bumped into him, he heard him mumble “sorry”, but John didn’t really care. All he wanted was to escape, not to have to look at the hospital’s building anymore. He turned his head and caught his own reflection in a shop window. He looked so old and pale, but beside that he looked quite normal. He thought that strange, to look just fine on the outside while on the inside he was scattered. Then he felt someone’s hand on his shoulder and in the shop window he saw a reflection of Molly Hooper. He turned around to face her, she smiled and greeted him. John tried to concentrate and be polite to her. They had a short, meaningless chat, and then, just when he thought she’s finally going to walk away, she invited him to join her on the Christmas dinner. John thanked her and promised he’d be there, though he didn’t know why on Earth he would promise something like that, and regretted it the second they’ve split.  
  
He had to admit he didn’t have a choice anymore, but had to compel himself to do some Christmas shopping. He wanted to have it done as quickly as possible and not to have to think about it anymore. He bought presents for Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, Stamford, also something small to send to Harry and Clara, and lots of other insignificant crap for minor colleagues that were supposed to be at Molly’s dinner. He stopped for a moment to think what to get for Sherlock, then he left the store, shaking his head as to disapprove his own naivety.  
  
When he finally reached home, carrying loads of bags and boxes, he instinctively looked up at the windows of his flat while patting his pockets for keys. He expected them to be dark, so he almost gasped when he saw colorful Christmas lights hanging there, framing every window, brightening up the frost pattern on the glass. Then all the lights went blurry and he could swear, although it was impossible, that he heard a lazy, placid melody played on a violin. He opened the front door in a hurry, leaving all the bags in the hallway, and running upstairs, jumping two steps at a time. He entered the living room, decorated in Christmas lights, chains, and mistletoe, when Mrs. Hudson was just finishing putting a silver chain around the mantelpiece.  
"How do you like it, love?" – she asked with a smile – "I was decorating my tree today and thought you could use some of these too, hope you don’t mind I made it in your absence?"  
He said nothing, his eyes nervously scanning the room, his hearing sharpened as he tried to catch the violin tones once again, but he could hear nothing.  
"Yes… I mean no, I don’t mind, it’s… it’s fine, thank you" – he said and returned downstairs to collect his bags, his leg burning as he was climbing up again. He had tears of disappointment in his eyes, though he knew, of course, that it was foolish to hope for him to be back, just back home, just like this…  
He spent the whole night sitting in his armchair in the living room. He was afraid the violin melody would return and he’d miss it. And he so longed to hear it again.

 

December 18th

Nights were the worst. Nights were always the worst. Right after he returned from Afghanistan he was almost scared of nighttime, images of war: dead bodies, blood on the sand, blood on his uniform, sudden pain tearing his shoulder apart – they were haunting him in his dreams. Now he almost whished for pictures to haunt him, he wished for dreams of Sherlock, he wanted to see him, to see him walking, talking, to see sparkles in his eyes when he narrows them, unruly curls dancing on his forehead when he tilts his head, his slender fingers plucking the strings of his violin. Every night he was lying in bed and wishing he’d dream about Sherlock, that he’d have that chance to see him again, and every morning he was waking up disappointed. He has never dreamt of Sherlock, he has never even dreamt of his death. He saw him for the last time the day he died, and after that he only saw photographs in newspapers for a few times, but he didn’t want to look at them, slanderous articles under the photos were too hurtful.  
So he wished to at least dream about him, but he never did. Most nights sleep wasn’t coming to him for hours, he was falling asleep nearly at dawn, and then he had weird, unpleasantly surreal, wearying dreams about everything and nothing. Even when he had better days, nights were bringing him only too many thoughts, messy, uncontrollable thoughts, that were eating him alive, consuming his common sense, and leaving the empty shell of a broken man. He was lying in bed for hours, every night, without sleep, just thinking, without any control of his own brain, thinking, thinking, thinking…  
Most of the time he was thinking about his leg. About how it hurt that day and how it’d hurt the next, about how many troubles it caused him that day, and how many it’d cause the next, about how angry it made him that day, and how angry it’d make him the next. About how difficult it was for him to walk up the stairs when he came to 221B for the first time, but how easy it was to run around the streets with Sherlock on the very same day. About how his hand went numb in the morning of the day on which Stamford introduced him to Sherlock, but how it wasn’t shaking when he spoke with Mycroft for the first time. About how everything changed, how much he owed Sherlock, and how much he lost the day he lost _him_. Floods of thoughts, every night, without rest. After a long day his only wish was to go to bed, and when he was already lying there, he wished for it to be morning already so the thoughts would stop.  
Day by day, over and over again, night by night. He started to fear that he’ll forget him. How he looked, how he moved, his voice, his smile, and the way he frowned, or how pleased he looked when he solved a case, and this ironic, slightly annoyed smirk he made when press asked him to pose in a deerstalker… so he wanted to dream about him so much, because if not… one day he’d not be able to recall his image anymore. Nothing scared him more. 

 

December 21st

It was such a cold day. A year ago it was a very cold day, too. John remembered that last year they spent that day in front of a fireplace, Sherlock was playing violin, he was updating his blog. He didn’t write anything on his blog for months now. He didn’t hear a violin for months as well. A year ago it was such a pleasant day, quiet, calm, peaceful, boring… perfect. This year the whole world could collapse around him, and he couldn’t care less.

 

December 24th – Christmas Eve

Snowflakes were dancing in the air, the world shrouded in silver frosting was shining like a diamond in a gold light of streetlamps, sky seemed like a black velvet, and stars were sparkling so bright, like Nature’s Christmas lights. John was standing in front of Molly’s house, gentle wind making crystal snowflakes rest on his head. His cheeks were flushed from the cold, his eyes were empty, his throat dry. He had a headache since the very morning, and his heart was beating like crazy, he could almost feel it, bouncing against his ribcage. He was blind to the beauty of that night. For him that night was missing one, essential thing, and without it nothing was beautiful anymore. Nothing was good, nothing was making him smile, there was no rest for him, no joy, no life. If all else perished but _he_ remained, John could still continue to be; but since all else remained, and _he_ was annihilated, the Universe turned into a mighty stranger, and John didn’t feel like a part of it anymore.  
He knocked on the door and, when Molly opened, the scent of mulled wine hit his nostrils. The room was warm and bright, and it smelled of gingerbread, and everyone was already there. They looked at him all at once when he entered, silence hanging in the air, John could read their thoughts in their eyes: _poor thing_ , _wonder how he’s doing_ , _he looks ten years older than last Christmas_ , _such a tragedy_ …

It was hateful. He was drinking wine, he was talking, exchanging wishes and gifts, he even laughed once or twice, but it was absolutely, utterly hateful. The radio was on and it was playing some awful Christmas carols, stupid, boring Christmas carols, instead of the lovely, beautiful violin… outrageous. He lied that Mrs. Hudson, who was really at her sister’s, stayed home alone because of her hip, so he could leave early.  
  
He came back home shaking, but not from cold. He was shaking from anger, and feeling powerless, and sadness, and grief. He slammed the door and went to the kitchen to pour himself some more wine, but instead he ended up with the whole bottle in his hand. By the time it was half empty John was crying. He looked around the living room and burst into sobbing. All those lights, and mistletoe, and presents wrapped in a colorful paper… it was Christmas again, time went so fast, and everything there looked exactly like it looked last year… how could world be shamelessly bedecked with lights and colors, like if nothing happened?! How could world just go on?! Well, John’s world definitely couldn’t. So, pushed by anger, he threw the wine bottle against the wall, and it shattered into pieces, and wine spattered on wallpaper.  
  
John picked up one of the bigger glass pieces and sat on the couch. It didn’t take him long to decide, honestly he decided weeks ago, he just didn’t want to admit it, until now. There was no hesitation, because nothing was holding him back. There was nothing left. Love is a vicious motivator. He cut his skin open with the glass piece, it sliced into his flesh, and cut the veins. It was easy, he was a doctor after all. He saw suicides so many times, he even rescued some of those people. The only difference between them and him was that he knew exactly where to cut for no one to be able to rescue him. Finally, the poison of his pointless life was leaving his body with the blood dripping from his arm to the carpet. He was looking at the red traces running down his forearm, at his escaping life, and he felt no fear, and he almost felt no pain. His hand went cold quickly, even though it was all covered in warm, thick blood. Soon he started to see all blurry, and he felt an odd numbness, his breath becoming shallow. And when at Molly’s all the guests were making a toast with champagne, and music from the radio was calmly floating between that smiling crowd, John heard his own music, the one he was longing for. He heard the violin, and then, finally, oh! finally! He saw _him_! He saw him playing, he was standing by the window and lazily drawing the bow across strings of his violin. Just like a year ago. John’s blood was sinking into the carpet and a puddle started to form on a floor. His pulse was getting slower, he was weaker and weaker with every extorted heartbeat, with every breath. The piece of glass slid between his frail fingers and fell on the floor. His arm was hanging from the armrest, he felt dizzy, his eyelids started to feel heavy. But Sherlock was there, playing, so it was good. Blurry lights shaped a halo surrounding the detective’s silhouette. For a moment he thought that maybe it’s just a dream, he felt kind of sleepy… but no, it had to be true, it felt true. So John smiled, feeling happy again. Like from a distance he heard his phone ringing, he got a text, but he didn’t care, he was with Sherlock again, he could let go, he could fall asleep with no fear. So he did. He closed his eyes, heavy eyelids fell, but even then he could still see him. Finally, it was more than just a dream, they were really together again. John died, with a smile on his face and Sherlock in his heart. Sherlock was the last thing he had in his mind before his heart stopped, his name was the last word that escaped from his throat with his last breath. He died. 

The text he’s got said “Mantelpiece – SH”. There was a present for John, hidden in a stocking, he left it there when John was out at Molly’s. But then it was too late.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> for more feels you can also see my Christmasy Johnlock video - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4f2mbKBStm0
> 
> *** 
> 
> sorry to all the people that were bored by this fanfic, i know it's really hard and exhausting to read. but in the first place i wrote this to describe my own feelings as i'm suffering from anxiety neurosis disorder, so basically i wrote it for myself. hope you will forgive me giving you such a hard time with this.
> 
> xoxo


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